


Your Mark Has Been Made

by Prevailing



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: 24/7, Afterimage, And Now For Something Completely Different, Anxiety, BDSM, Body Worship, Bondage, CBT Without the CBT, Claustrophobia, Collars, Deep Throating, Dom/sub, Edge Play, Established Relationship, Facials, Forniphilia, Good ol' Facesitting, Hurt/Comfort, Impact Play, Julian Bashir is the Sweetest Dom to Ever Dom, Just Kidding it’s All The Kink, M/M, M/S, Mild Erotic Humiliation, Mild Kink, Mind the Tags, Non-Monogamy of the Ethical Sort, Okay Lots of Oral Sex, Oral Sex, Orgasm Denial, Panic Attacks, Porn With Plot, Roleplaying (Not D&D), Slapping, So I heard you like sub!Garak, Spoilers, Teaching from Below, Toys
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-03
Updated: 2017-11-08
Packaged: 2018-11-22 09:47:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11377668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prevailing/pseuds/Prevailing
Summary: Julian helps Garak cope with the events ofAfterimage.





	1. Teaser

_DAY ONE_

 

“She’s a child,” Garak said, waving his hand, and continued passing his sewing wand over a tear in the Vitarian wool cloak laid over his workbench.

“Maybe so, but right now she’s the only person aboard with the training to help you.” Julian was watching him closely. Although his tone was that of the unflappable Doctor Bashir, the lines along his brow bore a lingering trace of the concern, the near-frantic _worry_ he’d displayed in the infirmary earlier that day. With that in mind, Garak relented. Slightly.

“If that’s the case, I’ll gladly wait for Starfleet to send me an adult counselor. One who _doesn’t_ get space sick.”

“ _Elim . . .”_

Garak flashed his most innocent smile. Julian only used that tone when Garak was being “unconscionably cheeky.” It meant Garak was moments away from a reprimand, should he choose to push his luck. It sent a thrill down his spine. “A joke, _jasi,”_ Garak said. He inclined his head, signifying his intent to obey. “I’ll follow Ensign Dax’s advice to the letter.”

“Be sure that you do.” Julian stroked Garak’s hair and kissed him. “I’m afraid I had to reschedule a surgery, so I’ll be a tad late coming home tonight. Wear something pretty, won't you?”

When he was gone, Garak looked down at his sewing and, absently fingering the warm gold around his neck, sighed.

He trusted Julian. Ezri Dax, however, was another matter.


	2. Chapter 2

As a child in Tain’s household, Garak had loathed servicework. It had represented his unambiguous and often hinted upon status as baseborn, inferior, lesser—and any number of other words too vulgar to be uttered in polite company. The work was dull and dirty. Even as he complied with every task given to him, Garak had resented the scrubbing, the pressing of linens, the cleaning and mending of clothes.

That is, until he’d joined the Order. Only then, toiling under the assumed guises of gardeners and custodians, did he begin to appreciate simple, honest labor. And perhaps, although he’d never admit it at the time: simple, honest lives.

It was menial, but just as Garak could take pride in a perfectly-executed interrogation, similarly he could fall in love with buffing the smooth tile of the sonic shower’s stall until it gleamed. As he cleaned and dusted their quarters, losing himself in the work, a serenity befell him, dissolving his worries of the ongoing war like a solvent.

Once the rooms had been thoroughly tidied, Garak continued the rest of his daily chores, letting habit and muscle memory sweep him along. He set the table, put up his hair, and slid into a petticoat of midnight-black tulle. All that was left was to order dinner.

As he was selecting their meal from the replicator, Garak remembered what day it was with a flash of disappointment. The O’Briens would be coming. Garak allowed himself an audible sigh. It came out as a groan. Normally he relished an evening of social engagement, but tonight—Garak scrapped his prepared menu and chose a spread that was more agreeable to limited human palates.

With dinner covered and ready, Garak sat on the floor near the door and stretched. Cardassian and human bodies did not perfectly align, and early in their relationship Julian had made flexibility a top priority, allowing them, as he so put it, to enjoy the “full range of motion.” When it came to stretching, Julian was a despot.

Once his muscles were warmed, Garak knelt in the Hebitian supplicant position—chest against his knees, arms folded behind his back, chufa pressed to the floor. Then he cleared his mind, steadied his breathing, and waited.

He tried to imagine the crashing waves of Cardassia’s Morfan Sea, but his thoughts drifted back, again and again, to his shop. The room spinning, his blood roaring in his ears. Odo standing over him, asking, “Are you all right?”  

_Humiliating._

Garak took a deep breath through his nose, exhaled slowly through his mouth.

He fought to drown the memories in the Morfan Sea. He imagined the waves buffeting the sensation of blind panic, the image of Odo’s lips thinned with sympathy, but the memories resurfaced, powerful as ever. Garak had once taken pride in his disciplined mind, but it seemed he’d lost even that.

Some time later, there was a familiar tapping at the door’s controls. Garak sat up, relieved to have his thoughts interrupted. Chin raised and neck bared proudly, Garak smiled as Julian strode in. If Julian had allowed it, he would’ve bent to kiss his boots.

“Welcome home, _jasi_ ,” Garak said. “I’m here to serve you.”

“Mm.” Julian took hold of Garak’s chin and kissed the center of his forehead. “Have you done your stretches?”

“Yes, _jasi.”_

“Good boy. Now, what are we having for dinner?”

Garak glanced to the door. Now would be the time Julian dismissed him to the bedroom to change into something more suitable for company while Julian brought in his waiting guests. But Julian wasn’t moving. He couldn’t possibly intend to—

“I canceled our dinner date with Miles and Keiko,” Julian explained.

Ah. Garak relaxed at the news. While he was grateful that Julian wanted to devote his evening to him, give him the space to recover from a trying day, a small part of him resented the hint of pity. Garak quickly smothered the impulse. That mental training—teaching himself not to assume negative motivations in his master’s actions—was an ongoing process. It required unlearning decades worth of experience.

Julian retrieved a padd, all business. Affecting the air of a pompous gul inspecting his men, Julian strolled through their quarters, assessing Garak’s housework with a thoughtful hum and occasionally tapping the padd’s screen.

At last, he declared, “Everything seems to be in order here,” and tossed the padd to a chair. Then Julian sniffed the air. Something lit up in his eyes. “Is that shepherd’s pie?”

It was. Once Garak had cleared away the extra plates, he pulled out Julian’s chair and laid a napkin across his lap. They ate across from each other, exchanging only coy glances, not words. Garak paid no attention to his own bland, mushy food. Instead he focused on Julian, anticipating every one of his needs, circling the table to refill a glass or add a few grinds of pepper. As he rose again to replicate more bread, Garak swayed his hips, letting the tulle petticoat swish, fully aware of Julian’s admiring gaze.

When he dropped off the dinner rolls, Julian reached over to fondle Garak through his skirt. He pinched Garak’s hindquarters. “This leaves nothing to the imagination, does it?” he asked, cold fingers sliding up to rub Garak’s thigh.

Garak glanced down. The fabric around Julian’s groin was noticeably tented. He knew better than to throw himself into Julian’s lap unasked; although Julian was unlikely to protest his temerity, there were rules to follow. Instead he stayed still, suppressing shivers as Julian’s fingers roamed wherever they liked.

With obvious reluctance, Julian pulled his hands away. “Go,” he said, “finish your dinner.”

Garak was even less interested in his food now, but he obeyed. When the meal was over, Garak cleared the table and knelt, sitting on his heels, at his master’s waiting feet. Julian took his time finishing his water, one finger tracing the scales of Garak’s throat. Garak leaned into the touch, breath catching as the fingertips lingered over the heavy necklace, then slid down to circle his chula.

“Activate collar,” Julian said, “voiceprint Bashir-sigma-five.”

Garak felt the necklace tighten. Metal snapped, rearranging into a thick band that circled his neck like a corset. It was tight, but not uncomfortable. Like a loving embrace around his throat.

Garak sat up straighter, anticipating the next order, when Julian unexpectedly hooked a finger through one of the collar’s rings and hauled him up until they were nose to nose.

“Why didn’t you tell me that Tain locked you in a closet?”

There wasn’t anger in Julian’s voice, only hurt and disappointment.

Garak set his jaw and looked away. “She _told_ you?”

“That’s another matter—one she and I will address later. Look at me, Elim, and answer the question.”

Garak met Julian’s eyes. “As a father,” Garak began, “Tain was many things. Negligent, at best . . . but mostly _absent_. He never oversaw my discipline as a child.”

“Then who—” Julian cut himself off as Garak raised a single eyeridge. Julian sighed. “You lied to her.”

“It was the easiest way to get her out of my shop. I don’t like people meddling in my private affairs. So I gave her what she wanted—an easy solution to my problem. If anything, I’ve helped improve the young lady’s self-esteem.”

Julian’s grip loosened. “Elim, she can’t help you if you lie to her.”

“ _Jasi_ ,” Garak said quickly, “I did tell you the truth. I don’t know why I’m claustrophobic.” He remembered, years ago, Mindur Timot going over the results of his tests. _“Some things defy an easy explanation, my boy,”_ he’d said. “If the Obsidian Order couldn’t find a cure,” Garak continued, “I highly doubt Ensign Dax will fare any better. What I _need_ is a break from Captain Sisko’s incessant demands. A few days, at most.”

“He won’t like that,” Julian said slowly, deep in thought, “but I promise, I’ll make sure he understands.” Julian leaned back and considered him for a moment. His voice took on a sharp edge. “You should’ve communicated all that to me from the beginning, Elim.”

Garak bowed his head. Ah, he’d been hoping to end this miserable, embarrassing day on a high note. Now he’d have to fetch that hated Wartenberg pinwheel, and he only had himself to blame. Garak shuddered at the thought of that awful spiked contraption crawling across his scales. “I know, _jasi_.”

“When we were married, you promised you’d be honest with me.”

Garak closed his eyes.

“I know how hard you try, I know it isn’t easy for you, but—” Julian paused, shook his head. “I’m letting you off with a warning. This time.”

Garak looked up. Truly?

“I _was_ going to let you fuck me tonight,” Julian continued with a slight smirk, “but I think you’ve lost that privilege. No pouting, Elim,” Julian said, wagging his finger as he rose to his feet. “That look hasn’t worked on me in four years.”

 _Three,_ Garak silently corrected.

“I expect you on extra good behavior, or I might change my mind.”

“Aren’t I always, _jasi?”_

Julian rolled his eyes, but the smirk stayed in place. “I’ll take my tea in the sitting room.”

Garak replicated Julian’s evening Tarkalean tea (three lumps of sugar instead of his usual two) and carried it over to the living area. Julian was already stretched out on the sofa, his nose buried in one of Garak’s newest enigma tales. As Garak sat at his feet, Julian’s hand went to Garak’s hair, absently stroking it as if everything was fine. As if this was any other night.

Garak attempted to read his own novel, but it was no use. He couldn’t concentrate on the words. They flittered past, unread.

Julian’s book thumped shut. “I’ve had about enough of that.”

Garak was about to protest that he’d barely read ten pages, but Julian was already on his feet and moving toward the bedroom. The snapping of his fingers drove all thought from Garak’s mind, and his smooth, accented voice barking, “Come, Cardassian!” sent the blood rushing to his neckridges.

Garak followed.

* * *

Another snap of fingers commanded Garak to strip Julian of his clothes. Boots first, then the uniform. As he folded the blue tunic and set it aside for cleaning, Garak’s mind jumped forward, to tomorrow morning when he’d dutifully shine Julian’s boots until they reflected. Smiling, Garak pressed his face to the crotch of Julian’s underwear and licked at his erect cock through the fabric. If scrubbing tiles was a solvent, then the heady scent of Julian was a salve, immediately soothing Garak’s nerves. Julian smelled of home.

The moment Julian’s shorts dropped to his ankles, Julian grabbed him by the hair. “Bathe me, Cardassian,” he said.

Garak growled. Julian wasn’t always as domineering as he fantasized, but his master tried, and Garak adored him for that. And he was getting better. Prostrating himself, Garak laved the top of Julian’s left foot and slowly, lovingly, worked his way up. He’d come to appreciate the differing textures of Julian’s skin, learned to lick in the direction of his body hair instead of against the grain. Years ago, Julian had offered to shave it. These days, Garak wouldn’t dream of seeing it gone.

“Yes,” Julian groaned through clenched teeth. “Good, good boy.”

Garak had just licked his way past the knee when Julian began to tremble. Impatient thing. Luckily Julian’s enhanced stamina more than made up for his lack of self-control. Garak continued lapping, his tongue darting into every nook and cranny, until he reached Julian’s hip. In all their time together, Garak had never gotten to Julian's other leg. Now wouldn't be any different.

Those delicate fingers were back in Garak’s hair, pulling upward until Garak’s nose brushed Julian’s erection. Humans were obsessed with their cocks, to a point that even self-absorbed egoists like Dukat would find excessive. Not that Garak _minded._ In fact, he found Julian’s obsession with his manhood rather well-earned. Garak clucked his tongue. “ _Jasi,_ I’m not done bathing you.”

“Don’t care. Suck me, ple—” He cut himself off and rallied his control. “Suck me off, you cheeky little git. Before I—” He bit his lip, his head tilted back and exposing his lovely throat. He smiled. “Before I bend you over my knee and spank your scaly bum.”

Oh, he loved it when Julian blustered. “Yes, master,” he said, enunciating the Standard word with deliberate solemnity before taking Julian’s cock into his mouth.

Julian moaned and tightened his grip on Garak’s hair. He was gentle, even more gentle than usual, coaxing him along with only subtle tugs as Garak greedily sucked him. Garak appreciated that. Normally he reveled in a little rough handling, but tonight what he wanted, what he needed, was Julian’s tenderness.

Soon Julian was gasping and holding onto the dresser for support. His frantic cries were going straight to Garak’s groin. He could feel the scales of his seam, swollen and wet with the need to evert. Oh, how badly he wanted to release the pressure and feel the cool air on his cock.

Sensing Garak’s desire, Julian murmured, “Not yet, _atsi.”_

For a time, Garak lost himself to Julian’s pleasure, noting every subtle movement of his hips. As Julian’s thrusts became minutely more erratic, Garak drew back to lavish attention to the head of his cock. “Oh, Elim,” Julian gasped, “Elim. So beautiful. So good, so good.”

Garak hummed happily. Julian made a small squeaking sound and his cock twitched, filling Garak’s mouth with pulses of hot, salty come. Holding it in his open mouth, Garak sat back on his haunches and looked up.

Julian wiped sweat from his brow and grinned. “Swallow, Elim.”

Garak happily complied.

* * *

Kneeling on the bed, Garak resisted the urge to squirm as Julian inspected him, running his hands across Garak’s facial ridges. Leaning in, he bit down on Garak’s left neckridge, his teeth grinding back and forth, sending tendrils of need down Garak’s spine. Garak couldn’t help the desperate tilt of his hips. Julian chuckled. His hands roamed lower, down to his chest, before slipping to the petticoat around Garak’s waist.

“I like it,” Julian said, kissing Garak’s neckridge as a hand slowly made its way up his thigh, caressing the scales. Garak forced himself to stay still and not shiver beneath the warm touch. “Did you make it today?”

“Yes, _jasi_.”

Julian’s hand dipped between his legs and Garak’s breath caught as two fingers rubbed his genital slit before teasing his opening. “Good lord, Elim. Look how wet you are.” Then he flicked the slit, hard enough that Garak jumped. Eyes brimming with mischief, Julian brought his fingers to his mouth and sucked Garak’s wetness from his fingertips like it was yamok sauce.

Garak swallowed.

“Now,” Julian murmured into his ear, “evert for me.”

Garak did, releasing a long breath as his cock slid from his penile sheath, pushing against the sheer fabric of his skirt. He could feel Julian's eyes on him. Wide. Dark. Lustful.

“Look at that,” Julian said, coming close to inspect but not touching. “Big, isn’t it? And all mine. Too bad you had to be so naughty today, Elim. I bet you would’ve loved to put that inside me, hmm?”

The man was an insufferable tease. Garak fisted the hem of his petticoat and tilted his hips to display himself further. “Yes, master.”

“Bad luck, then. Looks like you’ll have to settle for dreaming about it while you have yourself a wank. Well, don’t sit there staring. Get on with it.”

Garak took his cock in hand. He squeezed the base with his left hand, rubbing the underside with his right. His fast, rough strokes never failed to hypnotize his audience. Within seconds he was panting. Lubricant dripped through his fingers.

“Are you thinking about it, Cardassian? Are you thinking about fucking me?”

“Yes, master.”

“You slutty little thing.”

Garak licked his lips and sped up.

“I think I’ll have my way with you instead. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

Garak paused. But only for a second. “Please, master.”

“Beg for it,” Julian said.

As Garak hesitated, he remembered all the times Julian had teased him with his cock, only to deny him. Once, it was because Garak’s pride prevented him from begging enthusiastically enough. “Oh,” Julian had said with a significant raise of his brows. “Too good for my cock, I see.” Garak had growled and hissed his frustration before Julian had ordered him to sit in a corner for the remainder of the night. Julian kept up the embargo for two weeks. It was painful for Julian as well, but, unlike Garak, he was permitted to pleasure himself. Garak had weathered many dry spells over the years, but those two weeks had tested the limits of his obedience. He’d begged quite sincerely for it afterward, and the fucking Julian had bestowed upon him was sweet indeed.

With that at the forefront of Garak’s memory, he met Julian’s eyes. He started with small, hesitant whimpers. “Please,” he began. “Master, please fuck me.”

There was a snap of cold metal around Garak’s left wrist. With a gentleness that belied the aggression of shackling a lover, Julian restrained Garak’s hands behind his back and said, “Get your pillow.”

Garak looked around. He spotted the triangular shape of the pillow on the floor, tucked halfway beneath the bed. Garak dipped his head obediently, smiled, and slid off the bed, crouching down just enough to catch the corner of the pillow in his teeth. Like a riding hound with a heavy bone, Garak carried it back to the bed and dropped it into place.

“Good boy.”

The excitement was bubbling within him as Julian took his shoulder and pressed him forward onto the stiff pillow, putting his hindquarters on display. With his hands shackled behind his back, Garak could only lie on his stomach, eagerly anticipating as Julian lifted the back of his skirt and caressed the curve of his ass. The bed dipped as Julian climbed onto the mattress. “No humping the pillow,” Julian scolded, and there was a wet sound of Julian rubbing two fingers against Garak’s seam, coating them with lubricant before sliding inside him.

Garak bit back a moan. They were both breathing roughly now, breaths growing shallower as Julian worked him open. Then the fingers slipped out and Garak gasped as he felt the smooth head of Julian’s cock teasing his entrance.

“Please,” Garak said, spreading his legs wider. His own slick cock was trapped between the pillow and his belly, between satin and the rough tulle of his petticoat. He wanted desperately to rock his hips and slide onto Julian’s cock as it continued to circle around, rubbing provocatively but not entering. “Please, _jasi_.”

Julian groaned, showing his weakness for a well-timed _please._ His warm hands gripped Garak’s hips and he pushed inside. “Oh, god,” he murmured as he began to move, “you’re so . . . oh, bloody hell.”

Garak couldn’t do more than squirm and pant as Julian pumped inside him. A strangled cry escaped his throat as Julian hit one of his sweet spots and stayed there, pounding against it until his walls were clenching around Julian’s cock. Garak had to smother his face against the mattress to keep from screaming.

Behind him, Julian hummed in satisfaction and shifted his angle, targeting another spot. He had Garak mapped out perfectly, and he sought out every bundle of nerves as he fucked him mercilessly. Julian came, slowed briefly as he filled Garak, and continued pumping, his cock showing no signs of flagging.

“Come for me,” Julian gasped, speeding up until he was driving the breath from Garak’s lungs. Leaning his weight forward, he whispered, “Come on, _atsi_ , come for me. Don’t I take good care of you, hmm? Don’t you love it?”

Garak moaned and nodded quickly, feeling the heat building inside him. It was good. Julian was so good. “I do, I do. Please, master, my dear, _oh,_ yes, there, there, faster please—”

Julian obliged, speeding up until Garak was howling and coming hard, his muscles clenching as his cock flexed and released onto the pillow. Julian slowed and withdrew. Garak smiled as Julian’s lips brushed his shoulder. His smile was followed by a sigh of contentment as the warm droplets of Julian’s semen landed on his back.

There was a rustle as Julian unlocked the shackles, rubbed Garak’s wrists, and gently turned him over onto his back. They smiled at each other, Julian’s eyes glittering as he leaned down and kissed him deeply. “Good boy,” he said, holding him close in a tight embrace. He kissed Garak again, pushing his sweet tongue into Garak’s mouth. When he broke for air, he smoothed back Garak’s hair and nuzzled his cheek. “Feel good?”

Garak nodded, too relaxed for words, absorbing Julian’s warmth.

“No sleeping yet, you lazy thing. We still have to shower.”

Garak groaned in protest as Julian tugged at his hand. It took some doing, but he managed to shake off enough of the lassitude to get himself standing. He followed Julian into the sonic shower and let himself be held, wordlessly, as the vibrations cleansed them.

Afterward, Garak helped Julian into his pajamas. Then he tidied up the bedroom, changing the sheets and turning back the covers invitingly. Once Julian had slid into bed, Garak called the lights and knelt at the foot of the bed.

“May I join you, _jasi?”_ he asked.

“You may.”

Smiling, Garak circled around the bed and climbed beneath the sheets. Julian immediately wrapped an arm around his waist. He was intoxicatingly warm.  

“Deactivate collar,” Julian said. “Authorization Bashir-gamma-five.”

The collar loosened around Garak’s neck, snapping back into a deceptively simple necklace. Julian kissed his shoulder and slid closer. “Love you,” he said, and yawned. “Sleep well.”

With the war only straying at the edges of his thoughts, Garak did.


	3. Chapter 3

  _PAST_

 

It had started one night, as all romances do, with an innocuous spanking.

Julian lay across Garak’s lap, catching his breath. “I can’t believe I let you do that,” he said, his voice muffled against the bedspread.

“Neither can I,” Garak replied. He held his breath, even as his caressed the red handprints on the bare, smooth skin of Julian’s attractive backside. What a terrible mistake he’d made.

Tomorrow, Julian would forget everything they’d shared tonight. He’d accuse Garak of manipulating him, then say he never wanted to see him again, putting an end to this whirlwind of flirtation and debate and lovemaking. The reprieve from his loneliness would be over and Garak would return to pitiful, friendless exile. He’d been a fool, risking Julian’s trust by succumbing to desires better left smothered and buried.

It was all for the best. What he deserved, really. Garak didn’t know what to do with such an energetic young man anyway—

Julian wiggled his hips and grinned. “I can’t believe I came on you. From a few whacks on the bum. Like a bloody teenager.”

“Neither can I,” Garak repeated.

“Speaking of—I’d better take care of that.” Julian sat up, just enough to lap up the wet spot he’d left on Garak’s pants. Garak couldn’t withhold his gasp at the sight of Julian’s pink tongue inches away from his everted cock. “Oh-ho,” Julian said, “what have we here?”

“My dear, we must work on your subtlety.”

“I guess you’ll just have to train me, won’t you?”

Garak shook his head in amazement. _If only,_ Garak thought. If only he meant it.

Despite Garak’s predictions, Julian didn’t break down his door the following morning to accost him with accusations. There were no hateful glares in the Replimat, no slinging of colorful slurs. When the afternoon rolled around, Julian didn’t storm into his shop brimming with righteous indignation. _Just wait,_ Garak told himself, and so he waited.

That’s why, when Garak settled down for the evening with a glass of kanar, he wasn’t surprised when his door chimed. Julian was a few hours late with his revelation, but the time had come. Garak had already envisioned so many iterations of _how dare you,_ it was only the details that needed fleshing out. He doubted Julian would slap him, but words—from that mouth—would be equally painful.

Garak braced himself and keyed the door open.

The moment the door slid open, Julian threw himself into Garak’s arms. “Hello, love,” he said, squeezing his waist.

“Doctor.” Garak’s hands settled on Julian’s hips for lack of a better place to put them. He was so startled, he couldn't help the next question. “What are you doing here?”

Julian chuckled softly against his shoulder. “You didn't already forget last night, did you?” While Garak deliberated an appropriate answer, Julian continued. “To begin my training, remember?”

Garak was struck speechless. “Oh,” he said.

Julian pulled back to look him in the eye. He frowned. “You didn’t think I was serious.”

“Nonsense,” Garak scoffed, covering the tracks of his surprise. “You’re as transparent as your predictable human literature.”

Julian shook his head and smiled.

Perhaps the revelation was only delayed, but Garak wasn't about to turn down this wonderful gift. “Well, then,” he said, leading Julian inside. “We’d better get started right away.”

* * *

Julian was studious, with the obedience of a decorated Starfleet officer. He took to submission like a hound took to running. Garak hardly had to punish him—the human knew his place, learned his orders, and carried them out admirably.

Garak was older, wiser, more experienced with the protocols. He knew how to construct a scene by intuition, how to bind a body, how to make it writhe in pleasure or pain depending on his whims. He led, he dominated, so it only followed that Julian would take the balancing role. Together, they fell into their roles without further thought.

Not that Garak ever doubted Julian’s ability. When Garak ordered him to stay, he stayed. When Garak told him to suck cock, Julian closed his eyes and opened his mouth. He was a natural.

Then it began to fall apart.

The transgressions were small, at first. He’d have his fingers curled in Julian’s soft human hair as he fucked him, and when Julian shouted over his shoulder, “Harder, Garak!” Garak complied without question, jerking Julian’s head back and thrusting until Julian screamed. He hadn’t even thought to correct him afterward.

As Julian learned more of Garak’s techniques, his demands increased, and instead of punishing his misbehaving lover for trying to seize control, Garak rushed to do as he was told. Soon his well-constructed scenes were crumbling around him, losing their momentum mid-blow, leaving him frustrated and, above all, unsettled.

One evening, Julian dangled upside-down from the ceiling, suspended by a network of black ropes. _That_ had been his idea. He’d been ordering Garak around from the moment they sat to dinner and now, face reddened from the rush of blood, he showed no sign of stopping.

“A little higher, Garak. Good, marvelous. Now hit me. No, no, not with the flogger. Your Cardassian paddle. The strappy one.”

Garak sighed, frustration warring with a desire to please. Where had he put that paddle? Ah, yes, he’d last seen it in the bedroom. With a nod, Garak hurried off. He’d just found the paddle—hanging from the bedpost—when Julian called after him, “Don’t keep me waiting, Garak.”

“Yes, _sir.”_

He’d intended it as a glib retort, but there was no sarcasm in his voice. It’d come out sincere, without the false deference he reserved for his customers.

Garak’s hands tightened around the paddle’s leather handle as the realization dawned.

_Oh._

This was what he’d been sensing all this time—that precarious dread that he was standing at the edge of a cliff. He’d mistaken it as the fear that Julian would leave him when, in fact, it was his own desires warning him that he’d been ignoring them for far too long. Living a lie, as the humans would put it.

The more Garak analyzed it, the more certain he became. Beneath the frustration of having his scenes critiqued and undermined, he’d been enjoying this. All this time, he’d carried out Julian’s demands because he _enjoyed_ taking his orders. Reveled in the rush of Julian’s praise. He’d missed having someone tell him what to do. Indeed, he’d been at Julian’s beck and call from the beginning, hadn’t he?

Julian had gone quiet.

When Garak stepped back into the room, paddle in hand, he knew that Julian had come to a similar conclusion. Julian met his eyes as best he could from his suspended position. “We’ve been doing this all backwards, haven’t we?” Julian said.

The question hung in the air as Garak contemplated what to do next. Reassert control? Or take another risk? If he’d still been in the Order, the answer would’ve been easy. But now—now he had nothing to lose.

Garak’s hands were shaking. Tossing the paddle aside, he strode over to Julian’s upended form and dropped to one knee. Julian’s mouth hung open.

“Tell me,” Garak started, trying out unfamiliar words, “tell me what you’d like me to do, my dear doctor,” he said, feeling the ghost of a smile on his lips. “I want to please you.”

Julian blinked in surprise, then quickly recovered. “Well,” he drawled, “you could start by sucking me off.”

As Garak wrapped his mouth around Julian’s warm, stiff cock, he felt a calm possess him. A purpose he’d thought he’d lost but had been within him all along. How had it taken him five damned decades to figure it out?

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Julian admitted another night as they discussed this new revelation. “How do you teach someone to dominate you? I can lead—I tell my staff what to do all day. And I rather like ordering you about.”

“I’ve noticed,” Garak deadpanned and sipped his tea.

“I could tie you up.” Julian slid into Garak’s lap and stroked one of his neckridges with a glint of admiration. “You, the big, mean Cardassian—”

“ _Mean?_ Really, doctor—”

“—completely helpless. At my mercy. I think that could grow on me.” Then Julian’s smile faded to something more serious. “But please don’t ask me to hurt you. I couldn’t handle it. Hitting you, or calling you awful names—I can’t. It bothers me just thinking about it.”

Garak pulled Julian against his chest. Kind, gentle Julian. Already he could tell that Julian would be good to him. Far better than he deserved. “My dear,” he said, kissing Julian’s forehead, “I’ll be happy with whatever you give me.”

He meant it. On his oath to Cardassia, he meant it.

* * *

“We have a word on Cardassia,” Garak said. He handed Julian his drink and sat beside him. “ _Jasi_.”

“That’s an adjective, isn’t? Doesn’t it mean something like . . . superior?”

“It does. It’s also a noun. It can mean one’s superior. In any capacity, really. But in literary Kardasi it means,” Garak paused, “master.”

“ _Jasi,”_ Julian repeated. “I like the ring of it.”

“And its antonym, _atsi_ , means—”

“I’m not calling you _slave!”_

“Of course not, my dear. It’s far more innocent than that. The translation comes closer to ‘servant.’ I assure you,” Garak lied, “I’d never let you call me anything as crude as ‘slave.’”

Julian visibly relaxed. “Well, that isn’t so bad, I suppose. _Atsi,_ you said?” He smiled as he tried it out, whispering in Garak’s ear, “On your knees, _atsi.”_

“Yes,” Garak said, tightly, as heat spread across his groin. “I believe you have the hang of it.”

* * *

When Garak hesitated at the end of the street, Julian turned and favored him with a smile. “It’s okay, Elim,” he said. “There won’t be any undercover agents, or bugs, or . . . whatever else you’re worried about. Nobody’s keeping tabs on you, remember?”

Garak remembered. The sentiment was meant to reassure him, but all it did was further remind him of his absolute _unimportance._ As far as Garak could tell, the Order had stopped monitoring him following their disastrous assault on the Founders. If anyone besides the dear Constable was still observing his comings and goings, they were skilled enough to avoid his detection. That alone was unsettling.

Julian, always one to seek out silver linings, was quick to point out that this opened up new avenues of freedom. Granted, there were still plenty of factions eager to see Garak dead, but with the Order either distracted or uninterested, Garak could bend a few rules without fear of judgment or retribution.

Julian drew closer, brow furrowed with concern. “If it’s too much, we can turn back. I won’t mind. We could go to that museum you were—”

“No, my dear,” Garak said, smoothing his hair and hitching on a smile, “this is your evening.”

They’d come all this way. Garak had agreed to it. For Julian’s sake. They weren’t turning back to look at exhibits of clay pots behind force fields.

Julian didn’t look entirely convinced, but he nodded and continued walking.

The house was visible now: large but unassuming, reminiscent of Tain’s estate on Prime. As he followed Julian to the front door, Garak scrutinized his surroundings. Julian had, of course, assured him that it was perfectly safe, and Garak’s own investigations had turned up nothing to suggest they were remotely in danger. Their hosts were a wealthy middle-aged Bajoran couple, friends of a friend of one of Julian’s former patients. No signs of radical political leanings past or present. The confidential, thrice-encrypted guest list contained no names that aroused his well-honed suspicions.

Garak was certain he wouldn’t need the knife at his ankle, but it paid to be prepared.

The woman at the door smiled serenely as she checked off their names, but Garak was aware of her studying him from the corner of her eye. Her gaze lingered on his throat. She gestured inside. “Welcome. Make yourselves at home.”

“See?” Julian said once they made it past the foyer. “That wasn't so bad.”

The interior was tastefully decorated in neutral colors. Fine art hung along the walls in expensive frames. The first hint of their hosts’ unconventional predilections stood in the hallway: a life-size statue of a Klingon woman, carved from white marble. Her arms were bound behind her back with an elegant lattice of rope, her palms pressed together and tied at the wrists as if in some absurd prayer. Despite Garak’s opinions on the Klingons as a species, he had to give credit to their talents for bondage. The Klingon woman scowled over her shoulder, teeth bared. The sculptor had done an excellent job capturing the defiance in her eyes.

Julian stopped to examine the piece, stroking his chin as if he were an art collector assessing its value and not, in fact, evaluating its anatomical accuracy. Garak shook his head. His own attention was on the window treatments; the valences were especially stunning—smartly pleated in some places, gathered into rosettes in others. A similar design, perhaps in lavender, would look perfect in their new quarters.

Julian caught his arm before Garak could inspect the fabric. “We’re not here for the interior decorating,” he murmured into Garak’s ear. He glanced down the hallway, where they could hear the susurrus of voices, discordant Bajoran music, the clinking of glasses—along with more _intriguing_ sounds. “Shall we?” he asked.

“That,” Garak reminded him, “is up to you, _jasi.”_

“Right. Well, uh, come along. Chop-chop.”

“Chop . . . chop?”

Julian opened his mouth to explain, then grabbed Garak’s hand and pulled him along.

The hallway opened into a parlor where Bajorans lounged on couches and chairs, chatting loudly and sipping drinks. They wore varied styles of dress—everything from casual jumpsuits to lavish costumes—and equally various stages of _undress_. Many pairs of eyes settled first on Julian, breathtaking in the dark cerulean suit Garak had designed for this event, before zeroing in on Garak. In Garak’s opinion, his own ochre and burnt umber outfit made a striking complement to Julian’s. On Julian’s insistence, he’d crafted the neckline to expose the full flare of his neckridges and collarbone, giving him the thrilling sense of near-nakedness while remaining fully clothed.

The other guests didn’t seem interested in their sartorial choices, however. As they passed, conversations quieted, turning to gasps and whispers. Heads snapped toward Garak in double-takes. Some were rude enough to _point_. One woman fumbled her drink, spilling green liquor on her lap and the naked man at her feet. She glared at Garak in silent blame. Nothing he hadn’t expected. Garak pretended not to notice any of them and let Julian’s hand on his back guide him forward. Julian’s arm was stiff, as much protective as it was possessive.

Surprise and disbelief gave way to curiosity as, one by one, the Bajorans spotted the band around his neck. Conversations picked up behind them, even as silence fell in front of them like an auditory wave. But if any of their fellow guests disapproved of Garak enough to want him ousted, nobody said so.

An artificial stream bisected the room. Julian led them over a bridge, past a dance floor where Bajorans swayed to the cacophony they called music, and outside into the estate’s sizable backyard. It was dusk, but still pleasantly warm. There were numerous people out here, too, lounging around a fire pit and chasing each other across the grass, but it was noticeably more sedate. Behind the fire pit, Garak counted eight canopied beds—all occupied.

When they reached a secluded spot behind some trees, Julian stopped. “I’m shaking,” he admitted.

He was about to wipe his sweaty palms against the front of his tunic. Garak intercepted him with a handkerchief.

Julian gave a small chuckle. “Thanks, love.” As he dried his hands, Julian stared at the group huddled around the fire pit. A man wearing only a vedek’s hat entertained the others with a sultry dance. “I’m glad Kira isn’t here to see this,” Julian said. “For a number of reasons.”

Garak made a noise of agreement, deciding it was better _not_ to voice his opinions on the subject. He was more interested in studying Julian’s reactions to their surroundings. Back on the station, they’d been through several holographic trial runs—small, intimate affairs where the other guests could be willed out of existence should either of them become too uncomfortable. Despite the simulated nature of the parties, Julian could never work up the nerve to do more than observe those around them. “I’m not a prude,” he repeatedly insisted, even though Garak had never suggested anything of the sort. He claimed it would be easier to simply “dive into the deep end.”

Garak could sympathize with Julian’s trepidation. He never would’ve dared expose himself while he was still in the Order. Exile had one benefit: nobody cared anymore. Julian also remained steadfast. He wanted to go out, and he wanted to have Garak—in the most carnal way—for every eye to see.

Julian glanced at him. “You’re rather calm,” he said.

A nude woman slinked past with a tray of appetizers. She extended it toward Julian. He politely refused. When she was gone, Garak said, “It’s much like any other party.”

“Any other party, he says! I don’t know about you, Garak, but I’ve been to plenty of parties in the past thirty years, and I never once saw a woman get a . . . a . . .” He rubbed at his forehead, evidently unwilling to finish his sentence. “I’m not a prude,” he said.

Garak didn’t trust himself to smile without Julian misinterpreting it. Above them, there was a long, drawn-out wail. Coming from somewhere on the third floor, Garak guessed. When Garak turned back, Julian was giving him a long, searching look.

“Elim . . .”

Garak didn’t like the sound of that. “Yes, _jasi?”_

“Elim, are you _armed?”_

Garak paused for a half-second too long. “What gave you that impression, master?”

“Have you ever heard of the human colloquialism ‘more nervous than a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs?’”

“What a charming turn of phrase! What does it mean?”

Julian wasn’t sidetracked by his cultural inquiry. “Garak, you’re too calm for a Cardassian in a house full of Bajorans. So what is it? A dagger? A disruptor?”

Garak opened his mouth, debating whether or not to argue. He gave Julian a wounded look. What a hurtful accusation!

“Both, then,” Julian said. “Elim, we’ve been through this. I’m a Starfleet officer. I can protect the both of us. You can turn off that godforsaken training of yours and trust me, can’t you? And stop looking at me like that—it’s cheating!” Taking Garak’s arm, he pulled him deeper into the bushes and said, “Give them to me.”

Caught out, Garak reached into his clothing and handed over both the knife and the miniature disruptor.

Shaking his head, Julian tucked the weapons into his repurposed medical bag, out of Garak’s reach. “We’ll talk about this more when we get back home. You do realize I’m going to have to punish you now.”

Garak dipped his head and watched, warily, as Julian rifled through his bag and pulled out a length of leather. The leash. Julian had used that thing on him before, leading him around their quarters, even escorting him into the refresher. The only punishment Garak detested more was when Julian dressed him for the day. But he’d never brought it out in public.

Until now, it seemed.

“Since I can’t let you out of my sight without you getting into mischief,” Julian said, “I’m leashing you for the rest of the night.”

Garak eyed the leash. This was going to be _intensely_ embarrassing, he thought with a half smile. Julian was learning well. With deliberate slowness, Garak lowered to one knee and tilted his head back, offering his neck. He might hate it, but he’d take his punishment with a degree of dignity.

Julian attached the leash to the ring in Garak’s training collar. It clicked into place. “Good boy,” Julian said, motioning him to stand. “Now let’s . . . find a place to sit.”

They found a rattan chair, far enough from the fire pit so as not to intrude on the others, but close enough that Garak could feel its warmth on his exposed scales. Garak sat in the soft grass at Julian’s feet, one arm wrapped around his leg. Together, they observed the chaotic flow of guests. Garak’s attention moved from one to the next. It settled, for a time, on a shirtless man flogging a young woman. The man would pause to stroke the marks on her back, whisper something in her ear, then resume the beating. Garak admired the man’s technique and, shoving aside the pang he felt, let his gaze wander away.

The air was full of conversation, of soft cries and moans, redolent of alien perfumes and Bajoran sweat. Closer, Garak could smell the deep musk of Julian’s arousal. It fed his own need. Despite his restlessness, Garak was content to sit here all night, if that was what Julian wanted.

“I admit,” Julian said, “I’m a little jealous.”

Garak felt his hackles rise. He looked around the yard, searching for the object of Julian’s envy. Perhaps it was that man lounging in the hammock between two long-legged, blonde women. “Of whom, _jasi?”_

“Of you, Garak.”

Garak twisted around as far as the leash would allow. He laughed.

“I’m serious. Surely you’ve noticed the stares you’re getting.”

Garak suppressed the sarcastic remark on the tip of his tongue. “If I may, my dear, you’re the one everyone is admiring.”

“That’s _envy_ , Garak.”

Before Garak could point out that he was merely a curiosity, an exotic—as covetable as a uniquely ugly piece of furniture—the man in the vedek hat wandered over. He gave Garak a rude once-over, arms akimbo.

“What do you know,” said the man. “A pet Cardassian.”

Garak lifted his eyes and, rolling back his shoulders to fully expose his neckridges, bared his teeth. The man recoiled as if he’d been bitten. Garak’s satisfaction was short-lived, however; he felt a tug on his neck as Julian reined him in.

“Sorry,” Julian said, pulling the leash until Garak’s head rested against his thigh, “he’s still a little feral.”

The man harrumphed, righted his hat, and strode back to his friends. Once he was out of earshot, Julian stroked Garak’s hair and murmured, “What am I going to do with you?”

“Anything you want, of course,” Garak said. Feral, really. Julian had no idea.

Julian shifted his hips. Garak had no doubt that he was fully erect now. A finger traced the sensitive ridge along Garak’s right ear. “Why don’t we,” he cleared his throat, “put that to the test, eh?”

Garak looked up in surprise.

“Before I lose my nerve,” Julian added with a hesitant smile.

Garak’s heart gave an irregular flutter. The things that man’s smile did to him. Garak inclined his head and sat back to give Julian room to stand. This had been one of Julian’s greatest fantasies for years, and Garak was honored to be the one to help him fulfill it. “ _Nu heTh, jasi,”_ he murmured.

_Use me._

Julian rose to his feet. His cock jutted through the thin fabric of his pants. That simple movement was enough to stop conversations mid-sentence, but Julian was looking only at Garak, and Garak stared back, their eyes communicating depths of need and promise as Julian unzipped his pants one-handed and grasped Garak by the back of the neck, pulling him close. “Show everyone what a good boy you are, Elim,” he said. Only the slightest quaver in his voice gave away how nervous he was.

Garak could feel the eyes focusing on him. Proud Cardassian male, collared, collarbone bared, on his knees before a human. What were they expecting, he wondered? For him to balk? To hiss and spit?

Oh, what he was about to do wasn’t bending the Order’s rules; it was _breaking_ them, like handfuls of dry twigs between his fists. To Garak’s surprise, he found that this didn’t bother him nearly as much as it should. Perhaps Julian wasn’t the only one who had fantasized about putting himself on display. After so many decades living under unassuming guises, amidst shadows, the thought of such wanton _exhibitionism_ sent a perverse thrill down Garak’s spine.

Not about to turn down a challenge, real or imagined, Garak reached into Julian’s pants and, lifting his erection free, nuzzled the underside of Julian’s cock with the reverence it deserved. He licked the head, lapping drops of precome before sucking and nipping gently along the foreskin, then kissing the prominent veins. Once he’d lavished it with attention, he closed his eyes and took the head into his mouth.

A pair of delicate hands rested on the back of his head. “All the way, _atsi_.”

Garak moaned at the endearment. Yes, Julian was most certainly learning. Taking a deep breath through his nose, Garak flattened his tongue, tilted his head back, and swallowed the shaft down. The sensation of suffocation made his heart race with impending panic, but he tamped it down. He was safe. Even in the throes of rapture, Julian calculated the timing of Garak’s breaths, pulling out precisely when he needed them before plunging back into his mouth. Soon they found a perfect rhythm.

People were definitely watching now; he could sense a circle of observers forming around them. Certain words were whispered back and forth. Garak continued to ignore them. His eyes were watering from the strain and his jaw ached, but Julian’s desperate cries and moans were all the encouragement he needed. He had a mission, and he expected to complete it with nothing less than high marks. As Garak sucked and swirled his tongue, the crowd fell away and the burning in his jaw faded until all he felt was the warmth of Julian’s body, the fingers in his hair, and the euphoria of his surrender.

Julian pulled out, breaking him from the trance. “Eyes closed,” he said.

Garak obeyed. Seconds later, Julian cried out and Garak felt hot semen splatter his face. He didn’t flinch. As the last droplets fell, Garak licked whatever his tongue could reach. Then he leaned in, eyes still shut, to lap away the remnants from Julian’s cock.

Julian hummed, and then Garak felt his own handkerchief dabbing and wiping at his face. _That’s Tholian silk,_ Garak despaired, but only briefly before a hand caressed the ridges along his chin.

Garak tentatively opened his eyes to find Julian’s flushed, beautiful face grinning down at him. Averting his eyes, Garak tucked Julian back into his shorts and carefully refastened his pants. Julian leaned down to kiss him on the chufa. Dizzying warmth spread across Garak’s body, growing hotter as Julian took his face in his hands and kissed him hungrily. “Good boy,” he murmured against Garak’s lips. “Good boy.” 

Garak didn’t want the kiss to end, but Julian broke away with a sigh that sounded equally reluctant. He glanced around, nodded stiffly to the remaining onlookers, and tugged on the leash.

Garak climbed to his feet. He felt the eyes following them as Julian led him back into the house, over the imitation stream, and to the bar. The news of the Cardassian and his human master must’ve already spread; now their fellow guests looked upon Garak with open interest and, when they caught sight of the leash, a hint of . . . well, if he could guess, he’d translate their expressions as a sort of begrudging desire. It took great effort for Garak to ignore the attention.

Julian ordered drinks. Garak carried them, one in each hand, as Julian led him down a spiraling flight of stairs and into the manse’s sublevel. It was cooler down here, and pleasingly dark, with a handful of faux sconces casting orange light along the unpolished granite walls. There were beds here, too, and curtains for privacy—not that everyone seemed interested in using them. The air was thick with alien pheromones and floral, woody smoke. It vibrated with the sounds of sex. Distracting, but nothing Garak’s training couldn’t handle.

An attendant pointed Julian to a bed with fresh linens.

The moment Julian pulled the curtain, shutting out the rest of the world, he turned to Garak and shook his head. “I can’t—” A lovely blush spread across his cheeks. “I can’t believe we did it. We actually did it.”

“You did wonderfully, my dear.”

“Me? What about you?” Julian grabbed the drinks from Garak’s hands and placed them on a shelf above the bed. Closing the distance between them, he took hold of Garak’s aural ridges and kissed him. “You were incredible.”

Garak shook his head. There was nothing incredible about what he’d—

Julian pressed their lips together again, as if cutting off the thought. “Incredible,” he repeated. His tongue pushed inside Garak’s mouth. “Magnificent, really. Take these clothes off. I’d rather like to ravish you now.”

Garak had designed his ensemble for easy removal. With a tug of a few cleverly-hidden ties, his clothes fell to the floor. Julian grinned, a mischievous glint in his eyes, and pushed Garak onto the bed. He took the leash and tied it to the bedpost. “Stay,” he said.

Leaning back onto the pillows, Garak obeyed. He watched as Julian opened his bag and rooted through its contents. Their little performance in the yard had brought Garak’s cock halfway out, and the anticipation was enough to make him evert another inch.

Garak was not disappointed. There was a glint of silver and Garak immediately sat up, ready for the leather and burnished metal harness. Within minutes, Julian had it fastened around his waist and was back to digging through his bag. The next object could not be this difficult to find, but Julian took his time, shooting Garak coy glances over his shoulder.

The dildo Julian pulled from the bag was the big one. The one in the ludicrous shade of Bolian blue. It was, in fact, of Bolian make: a thick crease ran down its center. Frankly, Garak was embarrassed to be in its vicinity.

He was also loath to admit that it happened to be his favorite.

On Julian’s command, Garak spread his legs, giving him full access to the sensitive scales now slick with the lubricant dripping down his cock. Julian pushed two fingers inside. Garak remained still, focused on keeping his muscles relaxed. Then, with no warning, Julian withdrew his fingers and Garak felt the smooth head of the dildo against his opening. Only Garak’s fortitude kept him from whimpering as Julian coaxed the thing deeper, stretching him open, filling him up to the point of discomfort.

By then he was fully everted, breathing hard and ready for whatever Julian planned next. With a wide grin, Julian looped the harness’ cockring over Garak’s erection and attached the middle strap to the dildo’s pommel. “Activate belt,” Julian said. “Bashir-theta-three.”

Garak couldn’t help but jump as the harness tightened around him, locking both the dildo and the cockring in place. As if that wasn’t enough, the dildo began to vibrate in deep, thrumming pulses. Garak squeezed his thighs together to keep from squirming.

Julian leaned in, purring in his ear, “Comfortable?”

“As an . . . Edosian slug in a . . . bed of roses.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

With a swat to Garak’s bottom, Julian climbed onto the bed. He guided Garak’s hands to his shirt. Taking the hint, Garak immediately set to undoing the buttons, kissing and licking Julian’s warm, exposed skin as he went. He’d just opened Julian’s pants and was about to kiss the spot below Julian’s navel when the leash caught, stopping him. Garak sighed in mild annoyance.

Chuckling, Julian wiggled out of his pants himself. His renewed erection sprang free, plump and pink and inviting. Garak licked his lips and tried to read the intention behind Julian’s focused, hungry gaze. Perhaps Julian would lie on top of him, and they’d take each other into their mouths.

Instead, Julian reached over and retrieved the leash from the bedpost. Then he lay back, head propped on the pillows, and opened his beautiful thighs. “Come here, love,” he said.

When Garak hesitated, Julian tugged on the leash, reminding him of the command. Garak tentatively crawled over, but stopped at the space between Julian’s spread feet.

“Closer,” Julian goaded.

Garak frowned. Up until now, they’d come to the tacit agreement that Garak, being the heavier of the two, was better suited for lying on the bottom whenever they enjoyed “inverted congress.” He didn’t get a chance to voice his concerns. Julian jerked the leash again and Garak, about to lose his balance, scrambled forward until they were lying face to face.

Julian looked up at him and smiled, his eyes brimming with more adoration than a man like Garak deserved. “Much better,” he said. Slender legs wrapped around Garak’s waist and _squeezed._

Garak’s eyes shuttered closed as Julian brought their bodies together. His cock was flush against Julian’s and, oh, it was silky and warm. Pleasure and need radiated down his spine, made his cock flex and his muscles tighten around the dildo. He wanted to shift his hips, just ever-so-slightly, but he hadn’t been commanded yet. He had to be still. He had to be good.

Another tug of the leash and Julian’s wet mouth was on his. Despite being flat on his back, Julian dominated the kiss. His tongue insisted its way into Garak’s mouth, tasting, conquering. Garak moaned and submitted, remaining passive until Julian’s sharp fingers dug into the base of his neck, commanding Garak to respond. And respond Garak did. He kissed Julian avidly, with all his longing and need. With every kiss he became more desperate. His cock was hot between his legs, growing painfully hard from the cockring. They clung together, wet with Garak’s lubricant and Julian’s sweat. Julian shifted his hips, and soon they were rocking back and forth, slow and sensuous, adding their gasps to the din of voices around them.

Julian broke the kiss. “Fuck me, _atsi,”_ he said.

Garak slowed his undulations and tilted his head. Had he misheard that?

“Unless,” Julian drawled, “you aren’t interested.”

“Ah, my dear master,” Garak said, “I’d hoped you knew me better than that.”

Before Julian could retort, Garak wiggled out of Julian’s grip, sliding down the length of the bed until those long legs were hitched over his shoulders. There, with his face pressed into Julian’s groin, he began to lap and swirl his tongue. Julian squirmed and whimpered, his hips bucking as Garak added a finger coated with his own lubricant.

“Garak.”

“Hmm?”

Another tug on the leash. “Garak.” Julian’s lovely voice quavered the command into a plea. “Cock. _Now.”_

Garak bowed his head. “Of course, _jasi_ ,” he said, letting his smugness bleed into the honorific.

“Damned cheeky— _oh!”_

Garak held his breath as his cock sank into Julian’s body. He must go slowly. It had been _months_ since he’d last been inside Julian, and if Garak’s mind wasn’t currently overloaded on the tight heat surrounding his cock, he might've been able to calculate it down to the exact day. Garak closed his eyes and shivered as he bottomed out, fully sheathed. _At last,_ he rejoiced. For a few seconds, Garak remained still, simply exulting in the rare sight of Julian splayed out beneath him, hair tousled, lips pursed, ready to be fucked. To be sure, Garak had no illusions about who was serving whom here. He was a vessel for Julian’s pleasure as much as that infernal vibrating toy was a vessel for his own.

Julian made that abundantly clear by looking him straight in the eye and biting Garak’s left neckridge so hard that Garak shouted and bucked his hips. Human teeth were too dull to pierce the scales without significant force, but the spot still stung and throbbed. Julian smirked, clearly pleased with himself. “Make it good, Garak,” he said.

Garak nodded and began to move. As he picked up speed, Garak kept his eyes on Julian’s face. He followed every cue of Julian’s body—his panting breaths, the arching of his spine, every cry and howl that escaped his parted lips—and used them to his advantage. When Julian threw his head back and moaned, Garak leaned in and sucked on Julian’s earlobe, drawing out another series of cries. When Julian began to tremble and tug at his own hair—the signs of impending climax—Garak slowed to deep, teasing thrusts. When Julian relaxed, becoming complacent in their lazy rhythm, Garak pressed his belly against Julian’s cock, letting the friction of his scales burn a fiery, electric heat between them.

“Oh, god!” Julian shook his head from side to side, eyes squeezed shut. “Yes, Elim, yes. More, m-more! D-Don’t stop . . .”

Make it good, he’d said. Garak indulged in a private smile that was all teeth.

It wasn’t long, however, before the sweet rocking of their bodies became too much. Garak clenched his jaw, almost growling as he felt the pressure build. The dildo took that opportunity to jolt him with an especially powerful burst of vibrations, and only Garak’s self-control kept him from coming on the spot.

“N-Not yet, Elim,” Julian warned.

“Master . . .” Garak was close to pleading. The sibilants hissed between his teeth.

“Not yet.”

Garak rolled his eyes up to the ceiling. It was a soothing maroon, recently painted. Garak could scent the lingering fumes on his tongue. The painter had done a poor job of it; flecks of green paint were still visible beneath. The dildo buzzed again, breaking his concentration, snapping him back into the heat, the bliss, the sight of Julian flushed and sweaty. Garak moaned. “ _Jasi,”_ he tried again.

“Patience, Elim.” Julian sounded _amused._ Of course he was, the insufferable tease. He’d already climaxed once. He was young and genetically enhanced. He could likely last another half hour.

Garak almost whimpered at the thought. He was dizzy with need, and his knees and elbows were so weak he was starting to tremble. The cockring wouldn’t be able to hold him back much longer. He wondered how Julian would punish him if he _did_ come before he was ordered.

Then again, Garak could easily manipulate the situation. He knew Julian’s weaknesses. He had enough tricks up his proverbial sleeve—he need only exploit one to convince Julian he was _quite ready—_

Garak dismissed the thought. Instead, he drew Julian closer and kissed his neck. With slow, deliberate thrusts, Garak whispered into his ear, “Thank you, master.”

“Mmm.” Julian’s grip tightened on Garak’s neckridges and he pulled him into a bruising kiss. “Oh, Elim. You feel _so_ good  . . .”

Garak moaned against his lips. Julian’s mouth was sweet, velvety soft, and before he could stop himself, Garak was pleading again, quietly enough not to be overheard. “Please, my love. I need—”

“Yes!” Julian shouted. “Yes, Elim! Oh, god. Now, _atsi,_ now!”

Garak gasped in relief. Two strokes later, he roared with the intensity of his orgasm. His cock pulsed, spilling into Julian’s body with such force it snatched his breath away. He was only distantly aware of Julian convulsing beneath him and, with one last cry, coating their bellies in white semen.

Garak sank to the bed, rolling away just enough not to crush Julian beneath his weight. Delirious with post-coital release, Garak nipped at Julian’s sweat-dampened jaw and closed his eyes.

Julian ran a hand over Garak’s hair. “Good?” he asked.

Garak hummed.

They rested quietly for a time. The dildo was still buzzing away, but Garak didn’t have the energy to care. Finally, Julian sat up and began tugging the harness loose. Garak sighed as the dildo slid out, leaving him pleasantly empty. Julian got Garak sitting up long enough to coax him into sipping his drink. It was sickly sweet and the ice had since melted. Once the glass was empty, Julian drew up the covers and resumed stroking Garak’s hair.

Warm and contented beneath the pile of blankets, Garak began to drowse, despite the cacophony. He should stay alert—it wasn’t safe here. Julian might need him. But before he could shake off the lethargy, his muscles relaxed. He heard Julian murmur something, but he merely grunted acknowledgment.

Garak started awake at the sound of Julian zipping up his bag. He was fully clothed again and smiled sheepishly when he noticed Garak blinking at him. “Sorry, love. I didn’t mean to wake you. You can go back to sleep, if you like.”

Garak shook his head and propped himself up. He couldn’t believe he’d fallen asleep. Naked. Surrounded by loud, coupling Bajorans. Tain, whose atoms were likely scattered across the Gamma Quadrant, would have been more mortified by this slip-up than anything else Garak had done tonight. “How long was I asleep?” he asked.

“About a half-hour,” Julian said. “Tea?”

Garak took the mug and gave its steam a taste. Pyrellian ginger tea. “Thank you, _jasi.”_

“You’re welcome.” Julian sat at the edge of the bed. “You wouldn’t believe it, Garak. In the time it took me to find the replicator, I’ve had five people ask me—positively _beg_ me—to play with you.”

Garak smiled slyly. “Only five?”

“Oh, I’m sure there were more, but they didn’t get the chance to ask.”

“Hm,” was all Garak said.

Julian contemplated him. “You want to, don’t you.”

It wasn’t quite a question, but an observation. They’d negotiated the possibility more than once, at great length. Garak took a long draught of the tea. It warmed his throat. When he met Julian’s eyes again, they’d come to a silent understanding.

After Garak had cleaned up, smoothed his hair into something presentable, and gotten dressed, Julian took him by the leash and led him back upstairs. This time they found a seat in the parlor, between a fountain and a pair of bound and gagged Denobulans. They glared at Garak as he sat at Julian’s feet.

Garak smiled genially. “A shame,” he said.

“What is?”

“A Denobulan’s tongue is their best feature. Or so I’ve heard.”

Julian shot him a look that was both pained and amused. “Be good.”

Garak inclined his head in assent. He let his eyes flow along the crowd, moving from person to person. He was searching for some unknown quality, following his intuition. Above him, Julian swirled the ice in his glass and fidgeted.

“You don’t have to allow this,” Garak gently reminded him.

“No, it’s okay. I’m okay. I _want_ to do this, Garak.”

Garak nodded and resumed observing those around them. Julian was doing this for his benefit, and although obligation played a motivating factor, he was hardly being coerced into anything. He could put a stop to it at any time.

At last, Garak’s attention fell on a familiar middle-aged Bajoran. It was the same man from earlier in the yard, the one whose flogging technique he’d admired. The man had donned an emerald green shirt and was casually leaning against a wall as he chatted with one of the servers.

Garak shifted to rest his chin on Julian’s knee. “There,” he said.

Julian followed his gaze. “Him? The one in the green? Garak, he looks like my father.”

“I could’ve done _without_ that comparison, thank you.”

Julian winced. “Sorry.” His hand lingered on the crown of Garak’s head, petting him. He glanced over his shoulder again, at the man. “Okay,” he said, setting down his drink. He took a deep breath and tied Garak’s leash to the armrest. “Stay here. I’ll . . . be right back.”

As Julian strode across the room, Garak stirred, shifting minutely until his back was against the wall. A minor reinterpretation of the word “stay,” but Julian was unlikely to squabble over something so trifling. After all, he hadn’t even _touched_ the leash. From this vantage point, Garak could keep a watchful eye on Julian without fear of being ambushed.

Julian approached the Bajoran man with his usual charm: flashing that boyish smile, one hand outstretched in human greeting. The man returned both the smile and handshake. Garak was following the exchange of pleasantries when Julian turned and subtly pointed in his direction.

The man leaned over, seeking him out, and their eyes met. Garak held eye contact for a full five seconds, then coyly glanced away. In his periphery, he was aware of the man chuckling with good humor.

When Garak looked back, Julian had moved, putting his back to Garak and effectively blocking his window into their conversation. Wicked man. With his view obstructed, Garak could only sit and wait and wonder.

They talked for a long while. The lull allowed Garak time to contemplate his own feelings on the matter. He was excited, yes, but simmering below was the ever-present tinge of worry that this would be their undoing. Most men of Julian’s temperament would’ve balked. But Julian—kind, gentle Julian—wanted to give Garak everything, even if he couldn’t give it himself.

There was the irony. Despite what Julian might think, Garak did trust him to keep him safe. How could it be more obvious? His joints ached from sitting on an unforgiving floor, and he was leashed to an overstuffed chair while Bajorans stared at him like he was an exhibit in a zoo. Garak trusted Julian beyond good sense and self-preservation, to such an extreme that what Garak wanted was to be made helpless, to be at the absolute mercy of Julian’s whims. That was incontrovertible.

The one Julian didn’t trust was _himself._

When Julian returned, the Bajoran man was with him. As Garak inclined his head in deference to both of them, he found his eyes tracing the contours of the flogger at the man’s hip. Even as introductions were made and boundaries reiterated, his gaze continued to wander back to it. It was a simple tool, one he’d used on others before, but this was the first time Garak could remember feeling deeply roused by the sight of it.

With the solemnity of a man handling a sacred orb of the Prophets, Julian untied Garak from the chair and passed the leash to the man. To his credit, the Bajoran took the leash with an equally solemn bow of his head.

Julian kissed Garak on the chufa, hesitated, and kissed him deeply on the lips. “I’m not going anywhere,” he said.

Together, they followed the man up the stairs.


	4. Chapter 4

_DAY TWO_  

 

Garak climbed to his feet and peered out over the holographic precipice. This was a waste of time, and he was a fool for agreeing to come here in the first place. His hands were shaking. Not from the artificial height; this sensation of dread was entirely different, as if fight-or-flight instincts were doing battle, rendering him paralyzed. His hands hadn’t trembled like this since his first interrogation, decades ago.

The young Ensign Dax, ever helpful, had instructed him to breathe _._ “Remember your breathing,” she’d chirped, and she was lucky Julian had ordered him to be polite, otherwise he would’ve audibly scoffed. If his claustrophobia could be tamed with _breathing_ , he wouldn’t be suffering Jadzia’s second-rate successor, would he? Breathing helped people meditate. This went far beyond that. This had a mind of its own. If even Julian didn’t know how to help him, what possible good could a stranger do?

_Julian._

Julian had found him in airlock seven, out of his mind, pounding on the door with his fists. Over the years, Julian had seen Garak at his worst: slurring drunk, screaming in pain, violent from psychotropic drugs. Not to mention all the times Garak had been _willingly_ brought low: chained up, covered in semen, treated as a footstool, used until he was raw. Julian, somehow, had not only stayed, but had continued loving him through all of it.

This, however, was a new level of humiliation. Elim Garak, son of Tain, unraveled and weeping, so far gone that he’d tried to eject himself into space. To think that Julian had once _admired_ him, had hung off his every word. Elim Garak, enigmatic spy and wise mentor. Julian had chased his own tail in his eagerness to impress him.

Well, that was over now. The illusion was shattered. Thoroughly smashed to bits.

Someone had barged into the airlock. Garak had felt hands on his shoulders pulling him away. Trying to impede his escape. In his blind panic, Garak had swung out, knocking his attacker to the ground.

When he turned, it wasn’t one of Odo’s guards crumpled on the floor. It was Julian. Dazed, his teeth stained with blood.

That snapped Garak back to his senses. With a pained cry, he dropped to his knees and reached out to grasp Julian’s shoulder.

Julian caught his hand. “I’m okay,” he slurred, kissing Garak’s palm so tenderly that Garak choked back a sob. “I’m okay.”

Garak wasn’t sure he believed that. But before he could survey the damage he’d done, before he could voice his regret and relief and apology, the guards burst in, phasers drawn.

Julian had held them off with a raised hand and a sharp order to stand down, one arm protectively curled around Garak’s waist. Once the situation was under control and Odo briefed, he’d taken Garak to the infirmary. There, Julian had run yet another battery of tests. When those proved as inconclusive as the last round, he brought Garak down from his agitation with a mild sedative. Ever since the implant malfunctioned, Garak had balked at any medication designed to affect his brain chemistry—no matter how temporarily. Empok Nor had only further solidified that wariness. But true to Julian’s assurances, the sedative didn’t fog his mind. Within seconds, his heart rate slowed until it no longer hammered at every pulse point.

In the infirmary, Julian’s mannerisms were calm and professional. He was, after all, in his element. If Garak didn’t know him so well—if he weren’t trained to notice such details—he might have missed the panic in Julian’s eyes.

Standing at the edge of the holographic cliff, Garak flexed and unflexed his hands in a feeble attempt to stop shaking. He closed his eyes and focused on his breathing. Julian had so many worries taxing his attention; the last thing he needed was Garak breaking down. There, in the airlock, Garak had been so rattled that he’d allowed Julian to see him for what he truly was: an old, trembling neurotic.

Garak hissed, disgusted with himself, and killed the holoprogram.

“Letting go of all this misguided guilt would be a good place to start,” Dax had told him, and perhaps that facile advice contained a shred of truth. That had been a common tenet in Julian’s smug Federation psychology textbooks: self-compassion to counter self-hatred. The mantra of ‘catch, check, change.’

Not that Garak bought any of it.

He called for the exit. Sewing would help. It always had. But the thought of returning to his shop and his drawer of alterations suddenly repelled him. It reminded him of the work he was shirking. He still had that intercepted transmission to decode, and if he didn’t—

A voice called out, “Hey, pally.”

Garak stiffened and looked around. Nothing. He rubbed the bridge of his nose. Now he was hearing voices. Men who spoke Federation Standard with strange, archaic accents.

“Hey, pally,” the voice repeated. “It’s me. Vic.”

Ah. That self-aware hologram Julian found so fascinating. Garak plastered together a smile as he addressed the holosuite’s bare, green-gridded walls. “How may I help you, Mister Fontaine?”

“Not me. It’s that husband of yours. Think you can swing by holosuite two? Seems to me like he could use some company.”

Garak was already heading for the door. As he exited onto the mezzanine, he caught sight of Quark behind the bar, pouring drinks without a hint of his usual leer. Quark looked up, nodded in his direction, and returned to his customers without another glance. Before Garak could key in the code for holosuite two, the doors slid open, revealing the mid-twentieth-century lounge within.

Garak had been here only a handful of times before. He didn’t know what Julian saw in this setting when there was a functional bar right outside. For that matter, he didn’t see the fun in recreating ancient historical battles, but Julian didn’t expect him to understand any more than Garak demanded Julian appreciate the nuances of Iloja of Prim.

Vic Fontaine was on the stage, crooning one of his saccharine love ballads. With the exception of the band and the bartender, there were no other holograms milling around the bar. That made it easy to find Julian sitting at a table in the back. Alone, sipping from a high-stemmed cocktail glass and looking on the verge of flat drunk. He grinned as Garak approached, showcasing lips and teeth free of blood. “Hey, love. How did the session with Dax go?”

“Marvelous. Not _remotely_ a waste of time.”

Julian chuckled. “Good to hear. And the sedative?”

It had worn off before Ensign Dax even dragged him into the holosuite. “It was . . . effective, thank you. May I join you, Master?”

“Please,” Julian said. Before Garak could take the chair beside him, Julian clambered to his feet and pulled it out for him. Garak inclined his head in thanks and slid into the offered seat. Julian pushed Garak’s chair in, gentlemanly, but didn’t immediately return to his own seat. Instead, Julian lingered behind him.

Garak waited, unmoving, and couldn’t help the brief flinch as Julian drew aside his hair, exposing his neck. He relaxed as a warm hand caressed his shoulder and ran up his neckridge, teasing the scales with feather-light touches. Deft fingers stroked his vulnerable nape. Garak sighed as the hand crossed to his other neckridge and fell away.

“Let me guess,” Julian said, circling around to plop back in his own seat, “Vic’s cutting me off.”

Garak made a show of surveying the empty cocktail glasses. Julian might be genetically enhanced, but his alcohol tolerance was only above average by human standards. He didn’t stand a chance against a Cardassian. Garak knew; they’d tried it. “If he’s planning to ‘cut you off,’” Garak said, “he never mentioned it to me. Are you all right, _jasi?”_

“I should be asking you that question.”

“Is that what this—” Garak made an expansive gesture, “is all about, Master?”

“Garak?”

“Yes, Master?”

A pained look crossed Julian’s face. “Stop. Please, Garak, I just . . . I want—I _need_ —to talk to you. As an equal.”

This time, Garak caught himself before he flinched. His nerves were raw from the stress of decoding transmissions, two public panic attacks, and Ezri Dax’s incessant prying into his childhood. The prospect of talking to Julian as an equal—on top of everything else he’d had to deal with—made him want to gnash his teeth.

They _weren’t_ equals.

Garak’s hand strayed to the gold Cardassian necklace half-hidden beneath his tunic. Reluctant as Julian might be to admit it to himself, Garak was his property. That’s what they’d both agreed upon when Julian gave him this collar. There were no cross-cultural misconceptions. The meaning had been clear as a Risan day.

But Julian was far from a demanding master, and he was entitled to this request. If Julian wanted him out of role, Garak would do it.

With a long-suffering sigh, Garak muttered, “Very well,” and focused on a distant point above Vic Fontaine’s head. Easing out role was less like peeling off a bandage and more like peeling himself out of a skintight pair of pants. It took effort, and the guise resisted. They’d both grown comfortable together. But ultimately Garak triumphed and the veil of his submission fell away. Loss settled in the pit of his stomach. He ignored its cold, dead weight.

Garak folded his hands in his lap. “I’m all ears, Doctor.”

“Oh, we’re all the way back to plain and simple Garak, are we?”

Garak smiled. Even with his shields up, it was difficult to resist this man. “It’s either this or the Garak of my prior profession.”

“You mean the gardener, of course.”

“Of course.”

“Well, with choices like that, I suppose I’ll take you as you are.”

“You’re too kind, my dear.”

Julian grinned and, ah, it was much like the Replimat again. Bantering over lunch with easy, casual familiarity.

Fontaine’s song ended and immediately transitioned into another, more upbeat melody. It didn’t quite fit the mood between them, but that didn’t stop Julian’s foot from tapping along. Garak couldn’t help but smile at that, too. Julian reached over and took Garak’s hand, clasping them, palm to palm.

“I’m worried about you,” said Julian at last. “I haven’t felt like this since,” he squeezed Garak’s hand, “since that awfulness with the implant.”

“Oh? Have you already forgotten that Jem’Hadar internment camp?”

“I’m not likely to ever forget it. But that was different, Garak. It might’ve been hopeless at times, but at least I could help you. I could help Worf and Martok. Here, it’s—” Julian’s voice wavered. He blinked several times and pulled his hand away to tap at the edge of a cocktail glass. “I don’t know _how_ to help you. I can’t wave a dermal regenerator. For all my bloody intelligence, I’m worthless.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“I am. Worthless, that is. Garak, you almost spaced yourself!”

Garak made a flippant gesture. “I wasn’t in any danger. I didn’t know the control codes.”

“That isn’t the point!”

“Then what is?” Garak snapped.

Julian looked away. He fiddled with the cocktail glass, pushed it aside, and signaled the bartender. “I don’t,” he said, “I don’t know.”

“You _don’t know._ Pardon me, _Doctor,_ but I’m getting tired of hearing that.”

“That was uncalled for.” Despite the veracity of the words, Julian’s voice was thin, stretched to breaking. He sighed. “I know, I get it. It’s hard not . . . I mean, I just feel . . .” The bartender arrived with a fresh drink and Julian snatched it up. He sipped from its rim, seemingly content to never finish his sentence.

 _Well done, Garak._ He’d been spoiling for a chance to lash out at someone, and he’d hurt the one person who cared about him. ‘Displacement,’ the Federation texts had called it. He truly was his father’s son, saving the sharpest barbs for those closest to him. Garak’s hold on his anger wavered and collapsed. When Julian finished off the drink, pushing the empty glass to join the others, Garak took his hand and said, “I apologize, my dear.”

Julian swallowed. “Elim—”

“Shh,” Garak said, and he delighted in the way Julian’s brows lifted in surprise. It had been a long time since he’d last shushed Julian Bashir. “You’re a dedicated physician, but you must admit this situation bears a striking similarity to that Teplan blight you’ve been working on so tirelessly.” He licked his lips and added, for clarity’s sake, “There may be no cure.”

“I’m aware of that,” Julian groused, “but I’ve never been good at being helpless. You know that. I can’t stand seeing you suffer.”

 _You may as well get used to it, my dear, because this war is only going to get worse._ Garak turned over Julian’s hand. With a single finger, he traced the creases bisecting his palm, ghosting over the head and heart lines.

Once, early in their romance, Julian had told him of palmistry, of ancient humans who could divine a person’s past and future simply by reading the crisscross of lines on the hand. At first, Garak had thought this was another biological trait unique to humans. It hadn’t surprised him. For humans to manifest the details of their health and personalities in such a prominent location seemed in keeping with the species’ overall lack of guile. Palmistry seemed a subtle, valuable tool for information gathering; if effective, the Federation were fools to let it fall into disuse.

“It’s a superstition, Garak,” Julian had said, rushing to clarify any misconceptions. “Pseudoscience.”

Garak’s instincts told him that Julian was telling the truth, but there was still a possibility that the good Starfleet officer intended to throw him off the trail. So he’d conducted his own investigation, digging through Federation archives and skimming books translated from blocky alien script.

In the dim lighting of Vic Fontaine’s lounge, Garak took both of Julian’s hands and held them side-by-side, palm up. The soft, sensitive skin was olive-toned, with hints of pink. With a predatory smile, Garak ignored Julian’s impatient squirm and studied the lines, comparing. The roadmap of lines on each hand was radically different. “My dear,” he said, “I don’t wish to devalue your concerns, but you put yourself in harm’s way with far more regularity than this old tailor. Why, I could list every time you’ve been injured or nearly killed while on duty.”

“That won’t be necessary.”

“Ever since we met, I’ve been worrying about your well-being.”

Julian looked up. “You have? Why didn’t you say anything? You never so much as let on that it bothered you.”

Garak smiled thinly as he recalled those evenings spent in their quarters, worrying if this would be the mission where Julian didn’t return home. Wondering what kind of life he’d lead without Julian to keep him company on the cold station. Of course he’d kept his concern hidden. What else did Julian expect?

Garak continued to stare at Julian’s palms. The lines were so very different. Pseudoscience or not, it fit. The passing years had slowly robbed Julian of his wide-eyed idealism. Garak had seen the change. Made light of it, even.

Julian denied that he was any different from the brash young man Garak had first met in the Replimat. “I’m more experienced,” he’d say, then add with a sultry lilt, “and even if I _were_ jaded, that’d be _your_ doing. I’d expect you’d be proud of yourself.”

Garak wasn’t. Julian’s transformation had little to do with Garak’s influence. Like the smog over Cardassia City, the war clung to everything: thick, choking even the smallest and most innocent forms of life. Julian hadn’t changed fundamentally—he was still the same kind, compassionate man—but over the last year a part of him had been worn into a sharp edge. They’d begun to keep secrets from each other. The explosion involving the Romulan senator’s ship was one. Julian suspected a connection, had been exceedingly curious about Garak’s recent dealings with Captain Sisko, but he’d let the subject drop with uncharacteristic swiftness the moment Garak pleaded ignorance.

Then there were Julian’s own elisions. Garak knew he’d been visited by an agent of Section 31. He was well aware that the intelligence service was actively trying to recruit him, and that although Julian had ostensibly turned them down, the offer remained on the table. It kept him awake some nights, knowing that Sloan had been in their bedroom, and that there was little he could do about it. The stakes were too high to risk inserting himself into Sloan’s machinations. He was compromised now, fettered by conflicting loyalties. If anything went wrong, he’d be endangering Julian’s career, his life.

“Maybe,” Julian said suddenly, jarring Garak from his thoughts, “it would be best if we put a hold on this. Went back to being . . . normal, for a while.”

“What?”

“Not forever—”

“No.”

“Just for a little while. Until the war settles down.”

“Julian—”

“It can’t be good for you, mentally, to be—”

“ _Julian.”_

Julian went quiet and looked at him, brow furrowed. After all this time, he still didn’t get it.

Garak took a steadying breath. Waves of panic constricted his chest. The ground was shifting, the walls threatening to collapse and bury him in rubble. “This,” Garak said, “is the only way I can—” He faltered. Julian squeezed his hand, concern alight in his eyes as Garak struggled to control his emotions. “The rituals,” he started again, “they’re a _comfort.”_

“You mean it’s helping? Even now? With this?”

Garak could only nod.

Julian drew back and combed his fingers through his hair. He glanced sidelong at Garak, then down to survey the empty cocktail glasses. His thoughtful expression broke into a rueful smile. “Look at us. We’re a pair of nutters, aren’t we?”

“The perfect pair,” Garak agreed and leaned in to kiss Julian’s jaw as he caught the tears welling in his eyes.

Julian wrapped his arms around Garak’s neck and sighed. “I think I’ll stay here a while longer—sober up a bit. Dinner in an hour?”

“Any requests, my dear?”

“Surprise me. No, on second thought, scratch that. I’m in the mood for something spicy. Like a curry, or those Cardassian samosas with the impossible name.” When Garak easily pronounced the dish in question, Julian nodded. “That’s the one.”

Garak bowed his head and moved to stand. “If you’ll excuse me, _jasi—”_

Julian caught hold of his wrist. “One more thing,” he said. He glanced back at Vic Fontaine, still crooning away to his audience of two. He lowered his voice, blushing as he murmured, “Would you wear that . . . _item_ for me? The one with the . . .” He cleared his throat and made a helpless gesture. “You know.”

Garak considered letting him flounder a little longer. It was rare for Julian to become embarrassed these days; it harkened back to a time when standing in the same room as Garak was enough to fluster Julian into stuttering. He found it as charming as ever, but took pity on Julian and said, “Say no more, my dear.”

Julian visibly relaxed. Really, to be so bashful over an article of _clothing!_ Julian’s hang-ups could be difficult to predict, but perhaps those odd human inhibitions were the reason why such kinks—as Julian called them—were so effective.

As Garak turned to go, Vic Fontaine flashed him a smile and winked.

* * *

 _An hour._ Hardly enough time for Garak to ready himself _and_ perform his usual chores. Granted, their quarters hadn’t accumulated much in the way of dust or clutter since yesterday evening, but he had been looking forward to unwinding with his scrub brush.

Ignoring his stomach’s impatient growling, Garak stripped and climbed into the sonic shower. Standing in the narrow stall immediately brought on the sensation of panic, of walls that were _too close._ Propping the door ajar only helped a little. He closed his eyes, bracing himself against the wall as if that would keep it from collapsing on top of him.

What if it got worse?

What if Julian found him like this?

What if—

_Keep it together, Garak._

He cranked up the settings, cleansing the day’s alluvium from his scales. The sonics didn’t soothe the tension from his muscles the way hot water did, but it was quick. Minutes later, Garak stood before the mirror, naked, and assessed.

He looked tired. He was tired. What he needed, what both he and Julian needed, was a distraction. A night of indulgence. Grabbing a soft brush, Garak buffed his ridges with an anise-scented oil until the scales gleamed. Satisfied, he moved on to his hair. It was getting long now, picking up waves and pesky tangles where once it had been naturally straight. Coating his fingers with a sticky gel, Garak subtly teased the strands into something resembling disarray. How many decades had he spent cajoling it into perfect alignment, a carbon copy of Tain’s own hairstyle, of every respectable man on Cardassia? Anything less would have been a deviation. Not quite _scandalous—_ his people were too practical to assign morality to hairstyles—simply atypical. Breaching the norm was for young children, the seriously ill, the lower classes, and the dissidents.

What did that make him, then? Here he was, coaxing his hair to give the appearance that he’d just rolled out of bed. Granted, he didn’t often wander into public like this, but even in the privacy of their quarters, looking at his reflection, Garak felt a flush of . . . what? Titillation? Liberation? He couldn't quite be sure. With his hair thoroughly tousled, he set to work braiding and loosely pinning it up. Like tying a bowline, or lying, this skill took practice to master. Admittedly, he was getting rusty with the latter.

He admired his handiwork. Then, after a moment’s consideration, added a finishing touch: a chain of beads and glittering Denevan crystals. Quark had claimed that the stones were authentic and legally acquired, and Garak half-believed him. He circled it around the crown of his head, over the braids, letting the center amulet rest in the middle of his chufa. The end result nicely straddled elegant and provocative, he decided.

He padded into the bedroom and into his closet. The outfit Julian had requested defied any one descriptor. In Federation Standard, at least. The underbust corset was the color of amethyst and fashioned of Triaxian satin: smooth, sturdy, and easy to clean. It cinched once in the back to make room for the large protective scales of a Cardassian spine and twice in the front for easy adjustment. The steel boning squeezed Garak’s torso as he tightened the thick black laces.

He’d gotten the idea from Ziyal, of all people. She’d wandered into his shop one day with sketches of a human-inspired gown and corset. A costume for a holoprogram she hoped to run with Jake Sisko. Garak had teased her about that, and the Bajoran half of her lineage caused her cheeks to redden as she hid her face and denied everything.

He’d enjoyed crafting that outfit—every detail from designing the pattern to weaving the Chantilly lace. She’d looked lovely in the final product, the emerald green complimenting her complexion as Garak helped her try it on. He’d cinched the ribbons through brass eyelets and smiled as he caught her admiring herself in the mirror.

Such an innocent, warm-hearted girl.

Garak blinked rapidly and gasped. His fists had pulled the laces so tightly that they were bunching the fabric and compressing his diaphragm. He let go of the laces, loosened the cinch, and tried again. As he tugged the laces taut and tied them into a bow, he imagined what an effective garrote they would make.  Legate Damar should pray that they never crossed paths in the future.

Garak ran a hand down the soft satin covering his stomach. The corset was slimming, and forced him into an upright posture after years of playing plain-and-simple tailor. Pleased that it still fit, Garak brought the corset’s satin straps over his shoulders. Another pair of straps snaked between his legs, circling around to cup his ass.

Garak consulted the clock. Plenty of time left to assemble dinner. He replicated the meal, arranged the plates and cutlery, and drank down a cup of rokassa juice to settle his nerves. In front of the door, he stretched, warming his muscles, and knelt in his supplicant’s pose.

The amulet dug into his chufa where it pressed to the floor. He tried to clear his mind, to relax, but his thoughts were jumbled and chaotic. Worse than yesterday. A miasma of frustration that refused to disperse.

If only he’d known those codes. Then he’d have sucked himself out that damned airlock and been done with it. _All_ of it.

The front door slid open.

Garak sat up and smiled as Julian strode in, carrying a small, nondescript package. “Sorry to keep you waiting,” he said, “you must be star . . .” his eyes widened, “. . . ving.”

“Welcome home, _jasi,”_ Garak said. “I’m here to serve you.”

Julian gaped for a long moment, eyes flicking across Garak from head to toe. He visibly shook himself and grinned. “You’ve outdone yourself.” Julian set the package on the table and stepped closer. Taking Garak’s face between his hands, Julian kissed him, softly and sweetly. “You look stunning,” he said.

Garak inclined his head, feigning nonchalance. “Thank you, Master.”

“Computer, lights. Thirty percent.” As the room darkened around them, Julian helped him to his feet.

Garak immediately set about serving dinner, pulling out Julian’s chair and throwing a napkin over his protruding erection. He didn’t ask about the dimmed lights, the pair of candles Julian lit in the center of the table, nor the nondescript box.

Unlike last evening’s companionable silence, tonight Julian chattered endlessly, filling every anticipated silence with gossip and mundane observations. Julian’s babbling wasn’t intended to start a conversation; it was window dressing, the eagerness of a mildly inebriated man desperate to return to some semblance of normalcy. Garak couldn’t fault him for that.

“If you ask me,” Julian was saying, “Worf could try to be a little more understanding. Granted, she’s probably breaking a few Trill rules by staying on the station, but that’s Ezri’s choice. She has as much a right to be here as anyone else.” He glanced up as Garak refilled his water glass. “This is boring you, isn’t it?”

“Let’s just say _,_ I don’t lie awake at night fretting over Ensign Dax’s love life.”

“Lieutenant.”

“Hmm?”

“Captain Sisko convinced Starfleet to waive the rest of her training, on account of her three centuries of life experience. She’s a full counselor now. Didn’t she tell you?”

Garak set the pitcher down with a huff. “I was under the impression the Federation eradicated nepotism! Tell me, did Jadzia receive such generous treatment when she was an ensign? I feel almost personally offended on her behalf. Perhaps Starfleet should promote you to admiral, _jasi._ On account of your superior intellect.”

Julian snorted. “That would go over well.”

“Like a lead balloon over Vulcan.” On his way back to his chair, Garak paused. “Ah,” he said, widening his eyes. “I have a theory.”

“Well, this ought to be good. Go on.”

“She’s sleeping with Captain Sisko.” When Julian choke-coughed on a bite of food, Garak pointedly nudged his water glass closer and continued, “You must admit, it does make for better gossip.”

Julian took a gulp of water and caught his breath. “You’re terrible.”

Garak inclined his head and smiled.

They finished the last of the meal. Garak regretted replicating so much, but he’d been famished, and it was difficult to resist flaky crust, tender zabu meat, and a generous helping of sweetened yamok sauce. He was clearing away the dishes when Julian slid the box to the center of the table and tapped a button. Its lid unsealed with a hiss.

Since Julian hadn’t attempted to conceal its contents, Garak glanced over. “Is that—”

“Ktarian chocolate cake. Homemade by our friend Greskrendregk.”

Garak tucked his tongue against his cheek to keep from tasting the air, but it was no use; the aromas of freshly-baked confectionary teased his senses. He considered resisting, of claiming he was too full for dessert, but when Julian told him to replicate two forks, Garak obeyed.

They shared the wedge of chocolate cake, side-by-side. It was rich, velvety, and still warm from baking. They’d whittled it down to a half-inch wedge when Julian lifted his fork toward Garak’s mouth, a piece of cake caught in its tines. 

Taken aback, Garak glanced between the cake and Julian’s expectant face. His first, culturally-ingrained impulse was to scoff and reassure Julian that he was fully capable of feeding himself, thank you, but Garak had seen human couples perform this ritual in the Replimat. He knew what it meant, to them.

_Let me take care of you._

Odd, how accepting kindness could be akin to surrendering control. To admit helplessness. Garak preferred to show his submission by helping Julian, by offering his services, not by playing the mewling babe in need of doting. Yet here they sat, with a morsel of cake between them, and although Julian was clearly attempting to serve _him,_ Garak paradoxically still felt like the weaker party. Submission was indeed in the eye of the beholder.

Julian was gripping the fork as if he expected Garak to slap it out of his hand. Garak schooled his expression to the radiant fondness he felt for this man, and opened his mouth. He hummed in pleasure, perhaps overdramatically, as the cake met his tongue.

Julian beamed. He kissed Garak once, a peck that seemed to say _good boy,_ and fed him the last bite of cake. And then Julian was kissing him again, wet and sloppily, half climbing into Garak’s lap with his eagerness.

When they broke apart, gasping for breath, Julian looked down at him with half-lidded eyes. “Be a dear and clean up,” he said, giving Garak’s left neck ridge a squeeze.

Garak licked his lips and nodded. “Of course, _jasi.”_

Another squeeze to his neckridge, hard enough that Garak’s breath hitched. With a satisfied grin, Julian stood and disappeared into the bedroom.

Garak cleaned with the alacrity of a man well-motivated. When the dining area was spotless, he smoothed out the front of his corset and approached the bedroom door. _“Jasi,”_ he called. “Shall I make tea?”

There was a rustle from the other side of the door. A dull thump _._ “No tea,” came the muffled reply.

No tea? Julian always had tea with his evening meal. He claimed it “aided digestion,” and usually followed that spurious remark with one of his esoteric jokes about how it was “the English way.”

Suddenly the door slid open and a hand caught Garak by a strap, dragging him inside. Julian, clad in only his regulation undershorts, shoved Garak against the wall and said, “Activate collar. Voiceprint Bashir-sigma-five.”

The necklace around Garak’s neck loosened and reconfigured, its geometric plates snapping together into the familiar embrace of his collar. Garak sucked in a soft breath—all the air he’d be getting before Julian seized him by one of the collar’s rings and brought their lips together. Julian kissed him deeply, devouring him, until Garak’s lungs burned. Julian broke the seal, just enough for them to gasp in another breath, and kissed him again. His free hand slid downward and Garak emitted a small, plaintive squeak as Julian’s fingers found his seam. He was wet, the scales hot and engorged. Julian hummed in approval.

Eager to return the favor, Garak reached for Julian’s cock, but Julian brushed his hands aside. “No,” he said. “Hands to yourself, Cardassian.”

"Yes, Master," Garak said, drawing back. Much as he wanted to touch Julian, he wanted to _obey_ even more. He remained still, passive, while Julian explored his body to his heart’s content, delving into the depths of his mouth and the waiting heat between his legs. Garak closed his eyes and shivered and squirmed. The deep, peppery musk of Julian’s arousal grew stronger as he rubbed his hard cock against Garak’s hip, thrusting in time to the pistoning of fingers.

Then Julian was pushing him toward the bed. Garak landed backward on the mattress and instinctively spread his legs. That earned him a chuckle. Julian admired him for a moment, then moved to open a drawer. “How long’s it been since you last fucked me, Elim?”

“Honestly, I’ve lost track, _jasi,”_ Garak lied.

“Four months, three days.”

“Is that all? I hardly noticed.”

“Oh, well, if that's the case, then you won't mind waiting another day or two, hmm?” The blindfold shimmered in the low light as Julian pulled it from the drawer and dangled it enticingly between two fingers. Ah, so that was the game they were playing tonight. Sitting up, Garak allowed Julian to tie the silken fabric around his head. Not a single mote of light made it through the material.

More rustling. Garak lay back, waiting. Moments later, he felt the glide of smooth-fibered rope around his wrists. The tightening of a knot. Warm hands moved down to his feet, winding more rope around his ankles and knees, securing his legs together. Julian tied his wrist restraints to the ones around his knees and said, “How’s that?”

Garak wriggled around, testing the bonds with his full strength. Julian didn’t have the patience for elaborate ties—most nights he could barely finish a hobble before he was rutting against Garak’s backside—but what he lacked in patience he made up for in efficiency. Garak struggled against the ropes for a minute before falling back, defeated, the muscles along his sheath clenched as he fought the powerful urge to evert.

“Lie still.”

Blindfolded, Garak couldn’t see what happened next. He felt Julian looping more rope around his ankles, twining and twining, and then Julian was lifting him, bringing his legs up and securing them to—

There was a metallic click. When Garak tried to lower his legs, the ropes resisted. They kept his legs suspended, with his ass on display. Garak smiled. Julian had tied his ankles to one of the hooks in the ceiling.

He gasped as five neatly trimmed human nails unexpectedly raked across the backs of his legs. A second hand scratched the scales of his ass, then danced over to tease his seam. “You know,” Julian drawled, “if we had a mirror on the ceiling . . .”

Beneath the blindfold, Garak rolled his eyes. Him and that damned mirror again. If Julian wanted him to agree to anything so tacky, he would have to order him.

“If we did,” two fingers slid inside Garak, “I’d show you how utterly sexy you are right now.”

Garak’s seam responded to the invasion with a surge of slickness. “ _Jasi,”_ he whispered, “please . . .”

The fingers pushed deeper. “Yes, _atsi?”_

“Please, my love, let me, oh! Let me—”

Warm breath gusted across the sensitive scales of Garak’s seam. It was all the warning he got before Julian’s tongue laved over him. He licked and sucked and nipped until Garak was growling with desire, hips bucking as a tongue joined the two fingers inside him. Electric tendrils of pleasure surged down his spine and Garak’s seam released another swell of lubricant.

Julian moaned and lapped it up. If only he could _see!_

“Evert for me, love.”

Garak didn’t hesitate. He threw his head back and hissed as his cock sprang free. The air was cold and he was certain he’d made a mess of his corset, but he didn’t care.

Julian moaned again, gave his slit one last lick, and then Garak was sliding across the bedspread as Julian pulled him to the edge of the mattress. The change in position brought Garak’s knees closer to his face. “Are you ready to be fucked, Cardassian?” he asked.

Garak would have spread his legs in answer if they weren’t tied together. He nodded. “Yes, _jasi.”_

A pause. Silence. Beneath the blindfold, Garak frowned. Had he done something wrong?

Ah. He'd forgotten to say please, hadn't he?

There was a loud _smack_ as Julian’s open palm landed across Garak’s raised buttocks. Garak cried out—half in surprise, half from the sting of it.

“A little warning would have been nice!” he snarled.

“Oh, twaddle. You _love_ it.”

He did, truly. Moreso than even Julian. But that was beside the point. Garak was about to continue on with his hyperbolic grumbling, but Julian didn’t give him the chance. Tossing Garak’s bound legs over his shoulder, Julian pushed his hot, smooth cock inside him. Suddenly Garak wished he’d been gagged instead; the fit was blissfully _snug,_ and the noises he was making were undignified. 

 _“God,”_ Julian panted. “I’m not going to last long.”

Julian fucked him with deep strokes of his cock. Every muscle in Garak’s body was tense, unconsciously fighting against his need to whimper and writhe. It wasn't until Julian ordered him to relax, coaxing him with reassurances that it was okay, that he was _safe,_ that Garak realized how stiffly he'd been holding his body. Slowly, deliberately, Garak relaxed back against the bedspread, easing the tension in his muscles, allowing himself to truly enjoy being fucked.

Satisfied, Julian began to move again. He didn’t let up. He slammed into Garak hard enough to make the bed creak. Each thrust was steady, timed to bring Garak closer and closer to the edge.

Julian slowed, shifted his weight. He leaned forward and Garak blinked as the blindfold was snatched from his eyes and tossed over the side of the bed.

“Look at me,” Julian said.

Garak lifted his gaze to Julian’s face.

Julian smiled and gave Garak’s leg a quick peck before picking up the pace, never breaking eye contact. The pressure was building again and the temptation to close his eyes and bathe in the pleasure suffusing his body was hard to resist, but Garak never looked away. He longed to lick the droplets of sweat beading on Julian’s temples, to smooth away the crease between his brows, but he settled for staring into his eyes as he was fucked.

“Mm.” Julian squeezed Garak’s legs and sped up, skin slapping skin. “I love you.” When Garak let out a low, hissing groan, Julian bit his calf. “Go on. Say it back.”

Briefly, Garak considered playing coy. If he was impertinent long enough, Julian might bend him over the bed and give him a thorough spanking. But Garak knew his beloved well; behind Julian’s playful veneer, there was a hint of wariness in his eyes. This was not the time for games.

“My dearest, my Julian,” Garak murmured, his voice unsteady, “ _mabdlin.”_ He swore Julian’s cock twitched inside him. “ _Nu ka zIra’I._ I love you, too.”

Julian grinned and grinned. He rewarded Garak with an upward thrust of his hips and this time Garak didn’t simply groan in pleasure. He arched his spine and howled. Julian’s grin widened into something much more smug.

Then his right hand was around Garak’s cock, stroking him. Garak writhed in his bonds, but they held him in place. “ _Jasi—”_

Julian didn’t let up. With a strangled cry, Garak came. Julian followed after him, muscles taut as he filled Garak with powerful bursts.

After a time, Julian released a long, contented sigh and set to untying Garak’s bonds. As he unwound the ropes, Julian kissed the reddened marks they left behind. When Garak moved to sit up, Julian pushed him back. “No, let me,” he said, retrieving a towel.

Garak bristled. The thought that Julian was treating him like glass sprang to the back of his mind. He shoved it down, stifling it before it could fully form. Julian might be doting on him, but he was doing it out of love, not to wound his pride. Garak lowered his eyelids. He couldn't relax into Julian’s tender ministrations, but he'd allow it.

Nimble brown fingers undid the fastenings of Garak’s corset. Usually Julian was quite chatty after sex, but tonight he simply gazed at Garak with open appreciation. As Julian helped him out of his outfit, Garak caught a look of concern in Julian's eyes. Then it was gone and Julian was gingerly plucking the pins from Garak’s hair and kissing him. “Come along,” he said. “Let’s wash up.”

The shower was a welcome indulgence, and Julian tacitly left the door ajar. The steam softened his scales while the hot water soothed the muscles beneath. Julian helped, massaging the base of Garak’s skull and trailing down to knead his neck and shoulders. Garak groaned as the knots unwound. 

Julian’s arms circled Garak’s middle. “Mm, I could fall asleep here,” he said, yawning, and reached over to grab the soap. “Turn around.”

“Master, you’ll spoil me.”

“That’s my prerogative, isn’t it?”

In his younger days, those roaming fingers, lathered with soap, would’ve easily worked him into a frenzy. But the day had been long and trying, and Garak was exhausted, both mentally and physically.

Afterward, they dried each other and dressed in their pajamas. Garak gathered the clothes for washing, tidied the room, and changed the bed sheets. As Julian crawled under the covers with another extended yawn, Garak knelt at the foot of the bed and called the lights.

“May I join you, _jasi?”_ he asked.

“You may.” When Garak slid into bed alongside him, Julian threw a leg between Garak’s. “Deactivate collar,” he said. “Authorization Bashir-gamma-five.”

The collar loosened, returning to its original form. Julian snuggled closer and murmured into the darkness, “Love you, Elim. Sleep well.”

Garak stared up at the ceiling, fingers absently rubbing the smooth contours of the necklace. He wanted to obey, but this time, he couldn’t.

**Author's Note:**

> Many, _many_ thanks to my dear and insightful beta readers [LadyVean](http://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyVean/works) and [Lilith](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Lilith/works). May your dreams be blessed with happy, kinky headcanons. 
> 
> Also, show some love to Lilith for their [amazing fanart](http://reflectedeve.tumblr.com/post/162805916115/uh-bit-of-a-one-track-mind-recently-ill-try) of Chapter Two.


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